Second Chances
by Monny287
Summary: A re-write of one of my first stories, "Hidden in the Past." Hermione's happily ever after is anything but, and she finally has had enough and leaves. She finds solace in an old friend but the healing process is interrupted as everything she thought she knew about her husband and her son is suddenly turned on its head. H/Hr.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I own nothing. **

**A/N: I've been toying with the idea of re-writing many of my older fics. One, because I'm still on a high from reading the JKR interview where she finally admitted that H/Hr are more compatible than the canon couples. Two, because I want to get back into the Harry Potter fandom but have zero inspiration for fan fiction. And three, because I wrote my first HP fics when I was about 15 and the horrible writing in them makes me cringe. I like to think I've improved since then, so I'd thought I'd take a crack at fleshing them out a little better. I'm changing it a little bit from the original version, mostly the original characters, to make them a little more believable. **

In the end, it all came down to laundry. Well no, Hermione corrected herself as she clenched her fists and blinked back hot, outraged tears. The laundry wasn't the reason, just the excuse. Another excuse in a long line of excuses. She could write a book with how many excuses she'd heard over the last decade, uttered by a man she'd loved completely and lost her heart to in more ways than one. The laundry basket had been upturned, thrown completely off the dining room table by an angry sweep of an arm and accompanied by a obscenity. The shirts and socks she'd spent the afternoon sorting, washing, and folding fluttered through the air and landed in crumpled heaps in the hallway. In a weird analogy, Hermione thought for a moment that she was exactly like those clothes-she'd started out folded neatly. Her life had been orderly, wrinkle free. A man had swept her off her feet, and now his actions left her spirit rumpled and disorderly.

Her husband, the Man of Many Excuses accompanied by a short temper and a sharp tongue, had arrived home not ten minutes ago with a smile and a laugh, tugging his tie loose with one hand while the other ran through his hair to loosen the gel he used to keep it orderly during the work hours. He'd given her a chaste kiss on the cheek, then frowned to see that one of his button down work shirts had been accidentally stained pink-the result of an over exuberant preschooler helping his mother sort the laundry. When one of Eli's red shirts had found their way into the whites pile, the result was a humorous (to Hermione) lesson on colors for the little boy. Anthony did not agree.

"For God's sake, didn't you check before you put the load in the washer?" Anthony picked up the shirt and turned it around to inspect the damage from all sides. Hermione stiffened as she folded another set of tiny socks. She placed them carefully in the ever-growing pile and chose her words carefully.

"He knows his colors, and he's helped before. He was so excited that he insisted on putting the load in the washer himself. I didn't see anything out of place when I put the soap in, and I didn't think to check." Hermione barely resisted rolling her eyes. It was just a shirt. She watched her husband narrow his eyes at her and purse his lips.

"This shirt," he began. "Cost me one hundred pounds."

"And I'm sorry it got stained," she said. She wanted to tell him that thanks to the bleach, Eli's new favorite shirt was also ruined, and their four-year-old was taking _his_ loss a lot better than his father. But Anthony was already on the edge, and defusing him would be more productive than inciting another rage. The last one had put a dent in the kitchen wall and it had taken her an hour to coax Eli from his hiding place in the hall closet. Ironically, the red shirt had been a bribe from Anthony to get the little boy to speak to him again. She thanked whatever higher power was out there that it was closing in on ten o'clock at night and Eli had been asleep for hours.

"Are you?" Anthony spat, angrily tossing the dress shirt back into the basket. "Do you have any idea how hard I work to afford all this?" He swept his arm around him, indicating the modest house they lived in.

"I know-"

"I don't think you do. After all, it's not like _you_ pay for anything around here. It's not as though I don't keep _my_ nose to the grindstone to keep you happy." Anthony seethed. Hermione felt the usual anger fill her. She wanted to point out that quitting her job to stay home with Eli had been _his _idea, not hers. She wanted to tell him to take this house and shove it; it was hundreds of miles from her family, her friends, the job she'd loved so much. She wanted to scream that living a life chained to the house because your husband barely lets you leave it to go grocery shopping was no life at all. She wanted him to live one day in her shoes and see how long he lasted. But telling him all that would only make things worse. She kept her mouth shut, took a deep breath, and closed her eyes. When she opened them, Anthony was staring at her expectantly, his face red and his jaw clenched.

"You know I appreciate what you do. That is not what this is about." She shook her head. "I don't even know why we're arguing about this. You _know _I can easily fix that shirt. There's a very simple spell-"

"I don't think so," he barked. "I won't have any of that magic crap in my house. Do _want_ the whole neighborhood to think we're freaks? It's bad enough we have the cops banging down our door every time one of those nosy idiots next door decide to get involved in our business. I will not be made a fool of, Hermione."

She bit her lip. No, _she'd_ been the fool, to think she could bring him around to the idea of magic. Anthony had always been uncomfortable with her use of it and he'd convinced her that the Muggle way was best, since they lived in the Muggle world. She missed it, almost more than she missed her parents and friends.

"It's _one_ spell, Anthony. I'm not holding a pagan festival in the backyard complete with naked spell-casting. Magic is part of who I am."

"You've gotten along just fine without it all these years. We agreed when we got married-no magic. Do you really want Eli going into preschool and telling all the other kids his mother turns safety pins into toads? For God's sake, we'd have social services at our door in no time."

"We don't even know if Eli is magical himself," she pointed out. "What do you propose I tell him if he starts making things disappear? Or he accidentally conjures something when he's sad or scared?"

"You don't have to tell him anything. No child of _mine_ would be a freak."

"A freak?" she gave a laugh. "Is that how you think of me? Your wife-the freak? And what if Eli _is_ magical? Will you call him a freak? Cast him out of this house? Disown him?" She was so incensed now that she found herself punctuating every question with a finger in his chest. He grabbed onto her hand before she could poke him again.

"It's not going to happen, Hermione. I forbid it."

"You _forbid it?"_ she looked at him incredulously. "And how do you plan to do that? Beat it out of him?" This whole conversation was giving Hermione the strangest case of deja-vu, but she couldn't quite place it. She shook her head and leveled her gaze at the man in front of her.

"That's what's bothering you about the magic, isn't it?" she guessed. "It's not something you can control. Not something you can bring under your thumb, unlike your wife and son. Not something big-and-powerful Anthony Stone can manipulate and shape. You just can't stand that there's something out there more powerful than you, can you?" She was taunting him now, and she knew it. She shouldn't have been shocked at what happened next. He hand that was gripping hers in a death grip suddenly released and sent the laundry basket sprawling down the hallway. The other hand whipped through the air too quick to be seen and its palm connected roughly with her face. The _crack_ of skin against skin echoed through the quiet room and for a moment, time stood still as they stared at each other. Hermione stumbled back away from him, her own hand coming up to soothe her red and painful cheek. To his credit, Anthony's eyes reflected just as much shock as hers did; she'd taken a lot from him over the years, but he'd never once struck her. He'd screamed, raged, blamed, punched walls, slammed doors, and thrown things at her, but she'd always counted herself lucky that was all he did. Not anymore. Suddenly, Hermione couldn't even stand the sight of him. She needed to leave. She needed space to think. She dropped her hand and turned to the stairs.

"I can't do this anymore. I need to get out of here," she righted the laundry basket, but didn't bother to retrieve the scattered clothes. Her calm voice and manner was betrayed by her uncontrollable shaking.

"Hermione, honey, I'm sorry-" Anthony began, reaching a hand out to grab her arm. She jerked away and glared at him.

"Don't. Don't you even _think_ about touching me," she wrapped her arms around herself to stop the trembling. "I can't-I just can't. I just can't even look at you right now."

"Fine," Anthony's defensive posture was back. "But you're not taking Eli. He's already asleep and he'll be confused and upset if you leave with him in the middle of the night."

"If you think I'm leaving you with _my son_ after what you just did, you are out of your mind."

"Your son? You don't own him, Hermione."

"Neither do you," she turned towards the stairs when she felt him grip her shoulder and turn her around roughly. He squeezed her upper arms tightly as he leaned in close.

"You're not taking him," he breathed.

"You're going to find yourself in a world of hurt if you try and stop me. I'd like to remind you that I don't need a wand to do magic, Anthony." That did it. He shoved her away like her skin burned him. She fell to the floor and quickly scrambled towards the stairs. Anthony turned away from her and headed for the liquor cabinet. She didn't give him a second glance as she took the stairs two at a time.

She cautiously opened the door to her son's room, praying he was still asleep and that the fighting hadn't woken him. Eli lived in fear of Anthony thanks to his constant outbursts; he really didn't need to hear anymore. She closed the door behind her and settled her eyes on the occupant in the twin bed in the corner. The room was dark except for the nightlight casting a soft glow over everything, but she could see that Eli was indeed awake. He was sitting up on the bed, looking like a cartoon ghost with the covers flung over his head. A muffled light shone beneath the heavy blankets; Hermione had given him a flashlight the year along with the nightlight to help combat monsters under the bed. She didn't want to tell him the real monster lived in his house and couldn't be avoided. She sidestepped several toys on the floor before perching next to the child-sized lump on the bed.

"Knock, knock," she said softly, rapping her knuckles lightly against where she knew his head would be. "Anybody home?" At the sound of her voice, Eli threw the covers off. He was huddled in a ball, clutching his flashlight and his battered teddy bear. His eyes were swollen and his cheeks were wet; he'd been crying.

"Hi," he whispered to her. She ran a hand through his wispy black baby-fine hair and sighed. She pulled her long sleeve over hand and passed it down his face to dry his tears.

"Hi, baby," she whispered back. "Are you up for an adventure?"

"An adventure?" he was intrigued, but she detected a note of apprehension in his voice.

"Yep. You, me, and teddy here," she patted his teddy bear's head. "We're going to go somewhere safe." _Where that place is, I'm not entirely sure,_ she thought to herself.

"Do I have to go downstairs?" he flit his eyes towards the bedroom door. He obviously knew Anthony was wandering the first floor. Hermione heard the tinkle of glass and the sound of the ice machine attached to the refrigerator. He was fixing himself a drink and probably getting ready to drink himself to sleep. She thought to herself a moment before smiling at Eli.

"You know what? No, we don't have to go downstairs. I can get us out of here just from this room in no time. What do you say to that?"

"Okay," he nodded meekly. He crawled out of his bed and grabbed his backpack from its place near his closet. He handed it to her for her to fill. She quickly shoved pants, shirts, and undergarments into it while Eli struggled to pull his pajama top over his head. He obviously didn't want to go on an adventure in his pajamas. She chuckled as she watched him before taking pity on him and quickly stripping him. She let him pick out a new shirt to wear and helped him into a clean pair of jeans and his sneakers. She sat down on the bed and held out her arms. Eli crawled into her lap and clutched his teddy bear tightly.

"Close your eyes," she whispered into his hair. She tightened her grip on him and when she was sure his eyes were shut tight, she closed her own and willed herself to do something she hadn't done in years-Apparate. She bit her lip and thought of the last place she'd felt safe and protected. With a loud _crack!_, she and Eli were gone.

Harry Potter was two hundred miles away and brushing his teeth when he heard someone knocking on his door. No, not knocking, he thought as his eyebrows knit together in confusion. Someone was pounding on his door. Who the hell would be trying to bang down his door at nearly midnight? Ron wouldn't even bother to knock; he'd walk right in, rummage through his fridge for something to eat, and plant himself on the couch while waiting for him to come down. His enemies certainly wouldn't knock, and he wasn't dating anyone at the moment. With that, he yanked open his front door and immediately found himself staring into the eyes of Hermione Granger.

"Hello, Harry," she said, a faint blush tingeing her cheeks and neck red. Her right hand came up to brush a lock of hair behind her ear while the left held the hand of a sleepy-looking little boy who had a death grip on a ratty teddy bear. "Believe me, I'm just as surprised as you are. Mind if I come in for a moment?"


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: I own nothing. **

**A/N: Thanks for the encouragement! I'm still trying to figure out how this story is going to go; I think I'll stick with the overall plot but change a lot of the finer details. This is mostly AU, and not just because I wrote the original before HBP came out. **

If Harry had to choose the most surreal moment of his life, he was pretty sure this would at least be in the top ten. He blinked and shook his head as he took in the sight of a girl-woman now-he hadn't seen in years.

The War had taken an emotional and physical toll on everyone, but Hermione had probably suffered the worst out of anyone in his immediate circle. She'd taken great pains to protect her parents from the danger she faced on a daily basis; shortly before going into hiding with Harry and Ron, she had erased their memories of everything from the last twenty years-including (and especially) her. Of course, she had replaced the memories with happy ones, but something was never quite the same in her smile after that. The weight of what she had done, without their knowledge and without their permission, was heavy on her shoulders. Then, the unthinkable happened. The safety net was ripped away. Death Eaters stumbled upon the Grangers (now the Smiths) in the hills of Scotland, where they decided to take a second honeymoon. Despite insisting they knew nothing of a teenage girl named Hermione (even intoning that they would _never_ saddle a child with such an unusual name), they were kidnapped, tortured for non-existent information, and ultimately used to set a trap. The ensuing battle between members of the Order and Voldemort's followers had lasted three long days. The Order came out on top, but there had been no time to celebrate. Exhausted, filthy, and still bleeding from several untreated wounds, Hermione had rushed into the cottage where her parents were being held hostage. Harry could still hear her scream of anguish in his nightmares; her parents were dead. Likely dead before the fight had started, perhaps even before word had reached the Order. A small war-time funeral was held, and Hermione may as well have been buried along with her parents. She stayed by Harry and Ron's side until the end of the war, but after the funeral, she rarely slept, rarely spoke, hardly ate, and performed even basic routines with the jerky, impersonal movements of a robot. After the war, she left almost immediately, promising she would return someday, but that she needed some time to herself. That had been nearly a decade ago. She kept in contact off and on with Mrs. Weasley at her insistence, and the last Harry had heard, she had married a businessman and lived in a small town on the opposite side of the country.

And now, Harry felt rather foolish, standing there with his front door wide open in the middle of the night, his mouth full of foam and a toothbrush hanging haphazardly out of the side of his mouth. He watched as her eyes looked him up and down and a red flush deepened on her cheeks. Glancing down at himself, he realized that not only did he look like a rabid animal, he was barefoot and shirtless as well. Brilliant. Rolling his eyes at himself, he gestured her inside and shut the door against the early spring chill. He grabbed a t-shirt that hung sloppily over his stair railing and gave it a cursory sniff. When it didn't cause him to recoil in horror, he slung it over his shoulder and dashed to the kitchen sink, and despite the confusing mess of the last five minutes, he thought he saw the ghost of amusement on her face. After divesting himself of toothpaste and tugging the shirt over his head, he ran a hand through his hair and tried to think of something to say that wouldn't be extremely lame. What do you say to a friend you haven't seen in years who shows up unexpectedly on your doorstep at midnight with a small child? It's not like they make Hallmark cards for this occasion. He wanted to ask a million questions, but the last he knew, that was a surefire way to get her to clam up. Why was she here? Who was the child? Where was his father? Why did she run to _him?_ She hadn't exactly been on speaking terms with him when she took off. He was sure at least a small part of her blamed him for her parents' deaths. She had been hurting, grieving, and distant when she'd suddenly left with barely more than a word. She and Ron had dated briefly during the war, certainly he'd be the one she'd turn to? He opened his mouth to say something as he stood in front of her, but quickly shut it. He looked down at the child tucked behind Hermione, one arm wrapped around her leg, the other clutching an old and worn out teddy bear. The little boy looked up at him owlishly, his gaze torn between curiosity and fear. When he caught Harry looking, he quickly turned to hide his face in his mother's pant leg.

"Why don't you come in and sit down?" Harry suggested. He reached out to place a hand on her shoulder, but leapt back suddenly when both she and the child flinched. The boy hastily leg go of his mother's legs and scooted himself more firmly behind her. Harry's eyebrows knit in confusion and an uneasy feeling settled in his stomach. Especially when Hermione flashed him a shy smile but wouldn't meet his eyes. He hastily tucked that hand behind his back and gestured with the other one towards his living room. She carefully tread past him, looking down at her shoes. The boy had a death grip on the hem of her t-shirt as he followed his mother into the living room. She sank uncertainly onto his couch, perched on the edge as though she had half a mind to run at any moment. She lifted her child beside her and he immediately climbed in her lap and leaned heavily against her shoulder; Harry could see the poor thing was struggling to stay awake. He seemed reluctant to close his eyes-and those same eyes, a deep hazel flecked with brown, Harry noticed, watched his every move as he stepped into the room behind them. The atmosphere was tense, the air heavy with silence. After a few moments, Harry spoke up.

"I have a spare room," he offered, gesturing a hand towards the little boy. "You could put him down in there, if you want." He saw that her first instinct was to tighten her grip on her child. The heavy, uncomfortable feeling in his stomach worsened, and he didn't like what his mind was starting to piece together. In true Hermione style, she shook herself out of it and shot him a grateful look.

"That would be great, Harry. Thank you." She hefted the boy in her arms and followed him up the stairs.

Harry's use of the term "spare room" was generous; it was mostly where he put things he had no other specific space for. At the moment, it was semi-organized chaos. A work desk sat beneath a pair of windows, covered in stacks of paper and file folders. Stacked against the walls were boxes of miscellaneous things he hadn't even looked at since he moved in. An ancient-looking treadmill blocked off the closet, dusty and adorned with the dress shirts and ties Harry rarely wore; unlike many others with a government job, he was only required to dress up for special occasions-his uniform was usually jeans and a t-shirt. Luckily, the room also housed a double bed, a throwback from when Harry first moved in. He'd picked up the wooden frame at a yard sale, fully intending to furnish a proper guest bedroom. Ditto the mattress and bedding. Unfortunately, said government job severely cut into his social life and when most of your friends can Apparate back to their own homes in the blink of an eye, you don't have much call for a guest room. Harry wasn't even sure the bed had ever been slept in. He clicked on the lamp that rested on a very dusty nightstand and gestured sheepishly towards the bed. She nodded and made her way towards it. Harry moved out of her way and leaned against the wall. He watched, impressed, as she managed to change the boy into a pair of pajamas and steer him into bed without waking him up or making him drop his teddy bear. He blinked up blearily at her for a moment once he was properly in bed, but closed his eyes when she ran her fingers through his hair and began to sing to him softly. She stayed there, alternately singing and humming while threading her fingers through his hair long after he was truly asleep. The scene was strangely intimate, and it touched something inside Harry. Becoming aware that he was intruding on her private moment with her child, Harry quickly turned to straighten the papers on his desk as quietly as he could. When he was done with his perfunctory organization, he realized she'd stopped singing. He looked up and saw that instead of sitting on the edge of the bed, she was now stretched out on top of the covers, one hand lying protectively over the little boy and the other tucked beneath her cheek. She was sound asleep. He smiled to himself. It was a peaceful scene. He shook out the quilt that lay at the end of the bed and draped it over her, carefully tucking it around her small frame. He also couldn't resist tucking the comforter more securely around the little boy, for reasons he couldn't quite name. He gazed a moment longer at the two of them before shutting off the light and tip-toeing out of the room. He went to close the door behind him when he had a vivid memory of himself at age five or so-terrified of night-time in his cupboard. With that in mind, he left the door open half-way and the hallway light on.

Harry was awoken the next morning by the unsettling feeling of being watched. He knew the feeling well from the days of his youth, but he couldn't place why he was feeling it now-in his house, while he was asleep on his couch. He cracked one eye open and was greeted by a small fuzzy form standing in front of him. Confused, he reached for his glasses and hastily put them on. The small fuzzy form became sharper, morphed into a little boy in footed pajamas sitting on his coffee table with his teddy bear in his lap. His dark hair was stuck up in all directions and he looked rumpled, but the eyes that had blinked at him owlishly last night were now staring at him intensely. He ran a hand over his face and tried to wake up. He propped himself up against the arm of the couch.

"Hi," he said.

"Hi," came a little voice.

"Your mum still asleep?" he asked. The boy shrugged. Harry imagined she was; a quick glance at his watch told him it had only been a handful of hours since she'd fallen asleep. "Did you sleep well?" Another shrug. Harry was a little out of his element. He'd never spent much time around children, beyond the kids of his friends-but even then, it wasn't that much. He tried a different tactic.

"My name's Harry," he said. "What's yours?"

"Eli," the boy said softly. "I'm four."

"You're four?" Eli nodded. "Well…that's a…a good age to be." Another nod. Eli pulled his feet up until he sat cross-legged on the table and put his thumb in his mouth. Harry could only imagine how Hermione felt about _that_ habit, what with her parents being dentists.

They sat in silence for a few moments before Harry heard his stomach growl. Loudly. Well, he'd skipped dinner last night thanks to a late training exercise, it was no wonder he was starving. He eyed Eli.

"You hungry?" he asked. Eli nodded again. Harry tried to think of kid-friendly food. "You like pancakes?" Yet another nod, this one with a tiny smile. Harry swung his legs over the edge of the couch and stood up. "Alright then. You want to help?"

"Can I?" there was that tiny voice again. Harry grinned.

"Sure you can," he said. He stretched out a hand, gratified when he felt a smaller one slip into it. They made their way into the kitchen in search of pancake ingredients.

The first thing Hermione heard when she awoke was giggling and the sound of pots and pans. Wait, what? She resisted waking up, burying her face in her pillow before the events of last night came rushing back to her. Anthony. The laundry. Leaving. Apparating to Harry's house. _Harry's _house? _Oh, my God,_ she thought, and groaned. How was she going to explain that one? She hadn't had a destination in mind when she left the house; she'd only been thinking about the last time she'd felt happy and safe. And apparently that was with Harry. She pulled the pillow over her head and cursed loudly into the bed sheets. She briefly considered Apparating to a hotel and avoiding this altogether, before realizing that the space beside her on the bed was empty. Eli was gone. She felt a stab of panic before the rational side of her brain kicked in. Eli must be downstairs. That was the giggling she heard. Besides, she trusted Harry with her life, and thus with her baby's. She threw off the quilt (had she pulled the quilt over herself in her sleep?) and made her way downstairs.

As soon as she entered the kitchen, she was struck by how domestic the scene was. Harry stood at the stove in the same flannel pajama pants and shirt he'd been wearing last night, carefully monitoring something cooking on the stove. Her son sat on the counter next to the stove, his feet pounding a rhythm against the cabinets below and watching Harry intensely. Despite wearing an over-sized apron, he was covered from head to toe in flour, making his usually jet-black hair turn a grayish-brown color. His teddy bear lay forgotten on a kitchen chair, thankfully saved from the flour bath.

"Ready?" Harry grabbed the handle of the frying pan and glanced over at his cooking partner. Eli nodded eagerly. They counted in unison to three, and with a flick of his wrist, Harry threw the pancake in the air. As anticipated, it landed batter-side down in the pan, much to Eli's delight. He gave a laugh and clapped. Harry grinned back at him and reached over to thumb some of the flour off his nose. He mock-frowned at Eli. "What is your mother going to say when she sees you?" Hermione took that as her cue.

"I'd say it's about typical for cooking with Eli," she said, pushing herself away from the doorjamb she'd been leaning on. Both boys turned to look at her, and Hermione stopped in her tracks. _Woah, _was her only thought. She thought she'd always imagined the resemblance between her son and her best friend. Eli reminded Hermione a lot of Harry and many ways, including an innate curiosity that often led to dangerous situations; at four, Eli had already broken his arm twice. She'd even mused at times that he looked like what she'd always imagined Harry did as a little boy, but chalked it up to girlish daydreams and told herself that Anthony also had dark, unruly hair and hazel eyes and that's where Eli got them from. She told herself sternly now that there was no way she could be seeing similarities in their face shape and smiles as they looked at her expectantly. No way. Besides, she and Harry hadn't seen each other in years by the time Eli was born. She pushed the thought away and smiled at her son. Eli pulled the apron off and climbed down, making his way over to his mother and hugging her around the knees. She knelt down to brush him off before returning his hug. "Good morning, sweetheart. I see you've been having fun." Eli nodded.

"We made pancakes," he explained. "Harry doesn't need a spatula. He can make 'em flip all by themselves."

"I saw that," she smiled.

"He exaggerates," Harry said, slipping the now cooked pancake onto a plate filled with them. "I haven't done that in years. The first one ended up on the ceiling." Hermione glanced up. Sure enough, there was remnants of pancake batter on the ceiling.

"Well, they look delicious," she said. She forced herself to meet his gaze, even though shivers of embarrassment over the whole situation still ran over her skin. She saw no judgment, only concern and a bit of curiosity.

"That remains to be seen," Harry said. He turned away to put a couple on a plate. After cutting them into bite-sized pieces and covering them in syrup, he placed them on the table. "Eli, why don't you start eating? I just want to talk to your mum for a minute." Eli looked between the two of them and turned to her for direction. She nodded at him.

"Go ahead," she said. "We'll just be in the living room. You tell us if they're as good as they smell, okay?"

"Okay," Eli said, climbing up into the chair where his teddy bear was and pulling the plate towards him. Hermione waited until he actually started eating to leave the room with Harry following. He led her out of Eli's earshot and opened his mouth to speak.

"Harry-" she cut him off. What would she say?

"I just wanted to say," he said quickly. "That you don't have to tell me anything."

"But-"

"I'm not going to deny that I'm curious," he conceded. "You know me, always sticking my nose where it doesn't belong." She cracked a smile at that. "It's up to you. You're still my friend, Hermione. You can stay here as long as you need. No questions asked." Hermione was momentarily struck dumb. She couldn't quite put into words what his kindness meant to her. She felt her eyes moisten, and she blinked away tears before she totally lost it.

"I-I can't talk about it," she said at last. She glanced down at her shoes. "Right now."

"That's fine," Harry said. She felt a warm hand under her jaw, forcing her gaze back to his. "Hey. You look like someone who needs a hug."

The words were so unlike the Harry she knew in school-the one who was definitely not eager to initiate physical contact-that she gave a watery laugh. She nodded and found herself engulfed in a bear hug. This was _definitely_ not the Harry she had once forced her own hugs on. That Harry was scrawny and bony, only a few inches taller than she was and stiff in her embrace. _This_ Harry was quite a different animal. This Harry was tall enough to rest his chin on the top of her head. The scrawny frame was replaced by a well-kept muscled one, and the arms that had hovered awkwardly around her before banded around her-one at her shoulders, the other wound around her waist, keeping her tightly against him. She sniffled and got a whiff of his cologne, and a wave of nostalgia came over her. _That_ was still the same as it was in school; Hermione had pointed out to him at some point during fifth year, if she remembered correctly, that girls liked a boy who wore a good cologne. It was sometime after the "never been more fanciable" line, and Harry had tried his hand at picking one out himself. That had ended horribly, so Hermione took the liberty of choosing one for him. Apparently, he'd like it so much he was still wearing it, ten years later. She didn't know how long they stood there, taking comfort from each other, but her peace was disturbed suddenly by a small voice.

"Mummy?" Eli called. "Are you going to eat with me?" The moment was broken. She and Harry all but leapt away from each other and chuckled nervously. Hermione called out that yes, she was coming.

"He's probably covered in syrup by now," she said, breaking the awkwardness.

"That's okay," Harry said. "The flour will soak up most of it."

"Wonderful," she laughed, following him into the kitchen. She wasn't sure what the future held, but she did know she was the most content she'd been in a long time. A good feeling, she decided. Definitely one to hold onto.


	3. Chapter 3

Harry followed Hermione back into the kitchen to find a sticky four-year-old and a table covered in pancake bits and syrup. Eli sat kneeling on his chair, concentrating hard on trying to cut a piece of his breakfast with a butter knife, though to Harry, the word _massacre_ came to mind for the state of the table and what remained on the plate. When he had succeeded, Eli immediately turned to offer the bit perched precariously on the fork to his once-clean teddy, who was also drenched in syrup and pancake. His poking and prodding knocked the bear to the floor, where it landed with a heavy, wet-sounding _whump. _Eyeing Eli's suspiciously half-empty milk glass, Harry guessed that Eli had extended that courtesy, as well. Having spent a few mornings at the Burrow, surrounded by similar-if somewhat more chaotic-scenes from small, loud, red-headed Weasleys, Harry was unfazed. A simple housekeeping spell, or even a sponge would take care of the mess. When he turned to see the horrified look on Hermione's face, he was ashamed to admit that he had to bite the insides of his mouth to keep from laughing. She let out a rather indignant gasp before scooping her son off the chair he was now balancing on, trying to reach his bear. The fork went flying and clattered on the hardwood. Eli said nothing, but his eyes shone with confusion and his head flew around to meet his mother's gaze.

"Elijah James, what on earth do you think you're doing?" she scolded. "Look at this mess you've made!"

The words were not out of the ordinary, but something in her tone tripped Harry's radar; it was an octave higher than normal, and had an edge to it not present in their previous interactions. Eli appeared to pick up on it as well, for the confusion in his expression was replaced by alarm. His eyes dashed between Hermione and Harry, who was still standing in the doorway, leaning on the doorjamb. His face fell and his gaze dropped to the floor. He drew his arms into his body and huddled into his mother, his teddy bear and breakfast long forgotten. Hermione had stopped talking and was now looking around the kitchen for something, her cheeks flushed. She was muttering apologies to Harry as she went, and her nervous energy made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. When he could take it no longer, he stopped her with a hand on her elbow.

Or rather, tried to stop her. The action may as well have been an electric shock for the reaction of both mother and child; Hermione startled forcefully-if she'd jumped any higher at the contact, he would have had to peel her off the ceiling. She wheeled around before he could react and nailed him with a look of unbridled panic as her face blanched; Harry involuntarily took a step back and put his hands palms-up in front of him. She recovered quickly, as was always her nature for every emotion besides joy and I-told-you-so satisfaction; she avoided his face as she switched Eli from one hip to the other. She reached down in an attempt to retrieve Eli's teddy bear with shaking hands, hampered by the child stuck like cling-wrap around her torso. Harry gently leaned down to grab the toy, frowning when she leaned away from him as he did so.

"I-I'm sorry about the mess, Harry," she stuttered, nervously rubbing circles onto Eli's back. "I was just looking for a sponge to clean it up-"

"Hermione, don't worry about it," Harry felt the need to speak softly, as though to a spooked horse. "There's a bathroom with a tub in it upstairs. Second door on the left. You take care of him. I'll clean up down here." Hermione scuttled quickly out of the room, holding her son tightly to her chest. The last thing Harry saw before she turned the corner was a pair of wide, frightened hazel eyes peering over her shoulder. The intense emotion behind them sent a shiver down Harry's spine.

He ran a hand over his face and through his hair. Upstairs, he heard the water turn on as the tub was filled. He grabbed the sponge from where it sat next to the sink and began to mop up the mess of syrup on the table. His mind was too cluttered to even begin to remember a housekeeping spell. Belatedly, Harry realized he was still clutching Eli's soggy teddy bear, and he sat it on the counter to deal with later. The unsettled feeling in Harry's stomach that had been present ever since Hermione walked through his door the previous night intensified as he ran the last five minutes over in his mind. He was putting two and two together, and wasn't liking the end result. An occupational hazard of working in law enforcement, magical or Muggle, is brushing elbows with the seediest members of society, as well as their sometimes neglected and mistreated friends and family. In his time as an Auror, Harry had seen homes and lives that made his childhood seem idyllic; having no formal social services system and with the aid of magic to torment, influence, or mask mistreatment of people, the Wizarding world was at a distinct disadvantage to its Muggle counterpart. Muggle or magical, Harry knew the symptoms were all the same, ones he'd seen countless times before. Flinching, fear, embarrassment, minimizing, the inability to make eye contact, hypervigilance. Harry didn't like what this implied about Hermione and her son. She said she wasn't ready to talk about it. He wouldn't push.

The table sufficiently wiped clean and un-sticky, Harry came out of his thoughts to the sound of quiet talking and splashing, the tap having been turned off. A quick wave of his wand divested the toy of its mess, and Harry could not help but be drawn to the bottom of the stairs to listen in. Hermione and Eli were singing a children's song Harry didn't recognize, splashing during the animated chorus. A surprised yelp a second later made Harry smile involuntarily—Eli had splashed a little too hard, no doubt, and soaked his mother with bathwater. Harry was unused to having guests in his home at all, let alone a woman and her four-year-old. Sounds of domesticity Harry found surprisingly refreshing, and it was an odd combination of striking yet familiar to watch his former teen genius best friend mother her little boy. He heard Hermione announce to Eli that bath time was over, and the plug released in the tub, as he moved back into the kitchen. A muttered nonverbal took care of the remaining dishes—his most hated household chore. He avoided magic outside of work; he wasn't sure whether this was a conscious effort on his part or an automatic response from when he learned how to keep house, before Hogwarts. In either case, dishes had never been his favorite. He was drying his hands with a kitchen towel when Hermione and Eli came back down the stairs, Eli now dressed in more appropriate daytime attire of jeans and a t-shirt—and thankfully, syrup-free. His mother followed behind him, exuding a cheerfulness Harry new from longtime experience she didn't feel.

"There, now," she said, leading Eli by the hand into the room. "I think we did pretty well. At least he's not sticky anymore."

"Thankfully, so is the kitchen," Harry deliberately looked down at Eli with a smile in an attempt to show him he wasn't angry. No such luck. The little boy had retreated into himself, and had his eyes locked firmly on his mother's pant leg. Harry reached behind him to grab his peace offering—the clean teddy bear. "And this guy." Harry extended the toy towards Eli, who tentatively reached out to grab it and tuck it into his side. Gaze now steadfastly stuck to Harry's bare feet. Harry nodded and stood up. An awkward silence enveloped the kitchen as the two adults tried to think of what to say or do next. Hermione fluttered her fingers through Eli's hair. Subconsciously, Harry was sure. She gave him a shy look and bit her lip.

"No questions," Harry said. "Plan for today?"

"I don't want to interrupt anything you already had planned," she said. "Please, go about your business."

"No business today. We just finished up a case and I've got the next three days to myself," Harry leaned backwards on the counter. "To be honest, I'd planned on long periods of sleeping, maybe the occasional snack. You're not interrupting anything." She looked relieved to hear this. Harry excused himself to change into something other than his pajamas. When he returned, Eli was settled at his coffee table with a blank sheet of paper and crayons. His living room had been quickly tidied, including the throw Harry had haphazardly pulled over himself when he crashed on the couch the previous night. She was fluffing one of his throw pillows (gifted to him from someone during a housewarming…did he really look like the kind of guy who shopped for throw pillows?) as he walked into the room.

The rest of the morning was what Harry would describe as the definition of _low-key._ Not much was said by any of the three of them. Eli stalwartly kept his distance from Harry. Apparently, any trust that was built from making pancakes was long gone. Teddy never strayed far from his side, nor he from his mother's. An attempt to color with him went unanswered, but he did peer curiously around the train he was drawing at Harry's interesting-looking field scene. Harry had never claimed any artistic talent, and _interesting_ was gracious. Thankfully, Eli didn't laugh, instead nudging a sky-blue crayon his way in a subtle suggestion that the picture might need some clouds. Harry obliged, satisfied when Eli began drawing his own clouds above his train. Hermione sat quietly next to them, a blank sheet of paper in front of her. She did not draw, instead fiddling with a purple crayon absent-mindedly. She stared out the window, her brow furrowed in concentration. Occasionally, she turned to smile at Eli.

After lunch, Harry suggested a trip outside the house, in the hopes that would lift everyone's spirit. At Hermione's somewhat panicked look, he backtracked, and amended it to him running to the shops to complete some errands. Harry stepped outside his flat, took a deep breath, and Disapperated with a small _pop._ He appeared instantly at the door to Ron's house, a flat similar to Harry's in another part of the country. Ron opened the door with a grin, but the enthusiastic greeting died on his lips as he took in Harry's grave expression.

"Harry?" Ron gave a confused look. "What's wrong, mate?"

"You have no idea."

Moments later, Ron had settled them on his patio with bottles of butterbeer, transfixed as Harry relayed how his life had changed in the last 18 hours. To his credit, Ron said nothing as Harry went on and on, but as per usual, his face gave away everything. And thankfully, Ron's emotions seemed to match Harry's own. A smile when he mentioned Hermione's name. Confusion and surprise when he relayed that she'd shown up in the middle of the night. Shock when Eli was brought up—one of them, with a _child?_ It boggled the mind.

"Figures she'd run to you," Ron tried to lighten the mood. "You know me and damsels in distress. I'd probably have panicked and said something stupid. Or else Floo-ed her straight to Mum's. You always were better with the touchy-feely stuff." Harry tried to give a smile, but he wasn't feeling it. He hung the glass bottle from his fingertips and tried to think of a way to tactfully discuss his concerns regarding whatever it was Hermione was running from. Ron took another long drag from his own bottle and stared off into the distance. "She tell you what's wrong?"

Harry shook his head. "I told her I wouldn't ask questions."

"What'd you do for?"

"Dunno," Harry ran a hand down his face. "For Gods sake, Ron, she looked like a scared deer when I opened that door. Quite and wide-eyed. It's not like her."

"She always did like to tell everyone what's what whether they wanted to hear it or not," Ron agreed.

"And part of me really wants to know," Harry admitted. "But I also don't want to scare her off. And after this morning…" He trailed off. Ron blinked at him expectedly. Harry took a deep breath.

"We made pancakes," he said. "Eli and me, I mean. He made a right mess in the kitchen, you know, like kids do. Hermione freaked. I went to go help, but—"

"But?"

"She nearly went through the roof, she jumped so high. She flinched, Ron. She ducked like I was going to hit her." Ron said nothing, but Harry saw his jaw tighten and his gaze harden. "And she just starts stuttering all these apologies, like I'm going to get mad about a bit of syrup on the table. She hasn't said anything for at least two hours, and Eli's gone into some kind of super-quiet-hiding mode."

"Where are they now?"

"Still at the flat. I said I was popping out for an errand."

"You think she's running from someone, not something?"

"No idea. The flat's got wards. If someone comes, I'll know about it." Harry _thunk-_ed his head back against the lawn chair. "Mate, I am completely out of my depth here."

"I reckon anyone would be. But _you_ are the one she ran to."

"Right," Harry murmured to himself. He took another long swig of his butterbeer. "I'm the one she ran to."


End file.
